Some Enchanted Waltz (2 page)

After her music sets were lined up in the computer she left the control room to make the scheduled hourly check of the transformer readings. The huge metal transformer dominated the back room. It was an antique bought cheap by the station owner from the government some years ago. With the new digital age it had taken quite a bit of tweaking and expense to convert the monstrosity. So much so that the running joke was that it might have cost less to simply buy new equipment. The heat generated from the massive machine made the room nearly unbearable. The steady, loud thrumming prevented conversation in the room. Tara checked the range and voltage meters, recorded her readings and left the oppressive room, colliding with Tracy in the hallway.

“How did your meeting go?” Tracy asked. “Did the professor give you an extension?”

Tara rolled her eyes. “No. He says that they don’t give extensions to people in the real world and he wouldn’t be helping me by moving my deadline back a month.”

“Pompous Academic Ass.” Tracy muttered. “Probably hasn’t popped his head outside of his office in decades to observe
The Real--
”  Tracy stopped as warning bells sounded from the control room. Tara rushed back to her post in the control booth.

Roger was already there, frantically pushing buttons and typing in codes to re-start the computer and reload the satellite program. “We had dead air for forty-five seconds, not bad, considering all the electric energy in the air.” Seeing Tara had returned to man the controls, he moved to the door. “I’m out of here. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. The station practically runs itself.”

“Yeah, no worries, Tara, you’re sitting under a five hundred foot tower of metal with transformers and wires, you’ll just be fine.” Tracy quipped.

At last, it was five thirty
.
Punctual as ever,
The Gnome
came out of his hole upstairs to bid her goodnight. He wore a hideous green plaid short-sleeve cotton shirt tucked inside belted polyester pants with a waistline too high-- an incongruity that screamed nerdiness that contrasted sharply with his long grey hair, shaggy beard and radical hippie worldview. “We’re in for some bad weather. Have you heard that thunder?” 

Tara shook her head. She hadn’t heard much over Metallica’s distinctive blare.

The Gnome smiled and did a little jig around the room, another odd trait that had earned him his nickname. “Yep, yep, yep. With any luck this dump will get zapped by lightning and burn to the ground. Could be the best thing to ever happen to this place. Then Cheap Lenny will have to buy digital to keep us going.”

“Or, he could just cut his losses and leave us all unemployed.” She countered. The radio station was old, and quite rural. It wasn’t a money maker for the owner, but rather an expensive hobby. “But you’re right. The frequency is buzzing with an unusual amount of interference tonight.” Tara added. “I’m surprised no one has called yet to complain about the crappy reception.” 

“You never know what kind of weird shit’s being transmitted across the airwaves.” The Gnome responded in all seriousness, watching the screen with a thoughtful expression. “What we think is garbage, may be alien communications.”

 
Damn, I had to get him started on that Roswell Conspiracy crap.
Tara winced mentally, swallowing a mouthful of salami after taking a bite from her sub. The phone rang, startling both occupants of the control room. Tara dumped her sandwich on top of her desk, spilling lettuce and tomato across the white page of her research notebook in her rush to answer the phone.

So, good old Roger the control freak forgot to turn the ringer off after his live call in program earlier?
Got-cha!
Tara thought, wishing she could write him up for forgetting something as basic as he seemed to enjoy writing everyone else up around here.  The yellow light flashing was usually the only indication of a call for the person sitting in the control booth. Tara picked up the receiver, identifying herself as she felt around the base of the bulky landline console phone to find the shutoff switch to the ringer.

“This is Sheriff Jackson; I need you to put out a weather statement.”

Propping the clunky receiver on her shoulder, she reached for a pen to take down his report. Once finished, she put the Sheriff on hold and switched on the microphone. Looking over her shoulder as she wrote the Sheriff's message, The Gnome pressed the fade button to override the satellite broadcast for her.

“This is Tara O’Neill at WBAE radio with an emergency weather statement. The Marinette County Sheriff’s Department has confirmed reports that a tornado touched down 2 miles south of Pound on Schaffer’s Road and is headed west toward the towns of Harmony and Peshtigo. All citizens in the path of this storm should seek shelter immediately, I Repeat, Tornado Warning . . .”

After finishing the broadcast, she returned to the Sheriff on line one.

“Thanks. We’ll be in touch again before the night is out.” Sheriff Jackson replied.

Tara hung up the phone and restored the satellite broadcast.

“Have fun.” The Gnome bestowed a gleeful grin upon her as he made for the door.

“Dude? You’re not going to stay and help me with the emergency broadcasts?” She teased, in mock affront. Tara knew otherwise, but she liked to play with the dude.

“Oh, I would, but you know how Lenny is about overtime, and there is an X-Files marathon on the Sci-Fi channel--” 

A loud crack shook the room as thunder clapped directly over them. There was a blinding flash as the lights flickered and the computer screen became a psychedelic pattern of iridescent colors. 

“Damn it, we’re off line and off satellite.” Tara held her hands in mid-air, afraid to touch to the computer console for fear of an electrical shock.

“Reboot the system! I’ll check the satellite.” The spritely old man dashed down the hall to check the huge dish outside the front door.

Tara grabbed the systems manual and followed the instructions to reboot the computer. She reloaded the evening’s program menu. The computer confirmed that the satellite was receiving the broadcast again, now that the power had been restored.

The dead air had been two minutes and forty-five seconds. Not a big deal if it was just music, but deadly when rural residents depended on radio warning broadcasts during severe storms when TV was unavailable.

The Gnome came back inside to tell her what she already knew; the satellite feed was just fine. He saluted her with a merry grin and left for the night.

Tara was alone at the station. The broadcast crackled from the energy surges filling the air as the storm moved closer to the small city of Marinette.

The phone line lit up. She picked up the receiver. “Hi, kid. How’s it going?” It was Dan, the station’s engineer.  Just the sound of his baritone voice brought relief.

She relayed the recent power outage to him and then asked, “What about the tower?  It’s five hundred feet of wires and metal cable.” She parroted Tracy’s parting jest with anxiety. “What if it gets hit by lightning?”  

“It’s grounded. You’re safer there than you are at home.”  The deep voice on the other end of the phone was soothing to her frazzled nerves.

“No contest, I live in a rented mobile home with no basement and no storm shelter.” Tara reminded him. “This lightning is unreal. It’s like something out of an old horror movie. I’m getting an awful lot of crackling on the air. I don’t like this.”

“Nice of Roger and the Gnome to stay and help out in a crisis.”

“The Gnome had a date with the Sci-Fi channel and Roger has a family at home.”

“Leaving you and me with all the time in the world and no place to go but here.” Dan quipped. “Don’t worry. I’m on my way over. With any luck, the Gnome will get zapped into an episode of
The Twilight Zone
and find Nirvana at last.”

“One can always hope.” Tara giggled, cheered by his optimism. The phone line clicked and crackled. She set the receiver down quickly, fearing she’d receive a zing.

It was time to record the transmitter readings again. Tara grabbed the clipboard and headed for the transmitter room. The loud thrumming died just as she entered the stifling room. A deafening crash rumbled above the station. Tara froze in the darkness, clutching the clipboard to her chest. She reached into her cargo pants pocket to retrieve her cell phone. It wasn’t the first time she’d used it as a flashlight.

It was hailing now.
God, it sounded like a dinosaur was prancing on the roof.

She gazed about the large, machine filled room illuminated by the pale blue glow of her cell phone. It was creepy being here in the dark, alone. She shivered, despite the heat, as the memory of another dark night resurfaced.
Don’t go there
! Tara thought, quickly squelching the ugly reminder of what almost happened.

The power surged to life again with a primordial roar.

The transmitter groaned at the same moment the lights blazed on, searing Tara’s eyeballs and nearly blinding her in their wake. She blinked, and focused on the dials before her. The readings were sluggish after the interruption. She adjusted the metering and buffering controls, punched in the code to dial the correct radio frequency, pushed the reboot button and leaned out of the room to hear if Rotten Rick was back on the air. 

Yes, she could hear his distinctive gravelly voice as he spewed the latest gossip about album releases and concert schedules. Tara breathed a sigh of relief. Disaster once more averted. She returned to the control room. As she took her seat at the control panel, the phone light lit up again. It was the Sheriff’s Department calling to report an unconfirmed funnel cloud sighted twenty five miles north, near Wausaukee.

Tara brushed her bangs from her forehead with a sigh. She pushed the fade button to go live.  “Tara O’Neill at WBAE with an emergency weather statement . . .”

When she finished the broadcast Tara looked up to find Dan Wilson, the station’s engineer, standing in the doorway watching her with a satisfied smirk. To him, everything was all a great cosmic joke. His nickname at the station was Lurch as he towered above mere mortals at a staggering six feet and five inches. His right hand balanced the familiar cigarette. He irreverently flicked ashes on the floor as he rubbed the silver-blond stubble beneath his chin.

“I thought you had some doings with the Rescue Squad tonight.” Tara gave the tall, middle aged blonde a grateful smile. “I’d hate to come between you and a free meal.”

“Tomorrow.”  He paused, inhaling and letting out a wreath of smoke. “The front door wasn’t locked, kid. What have I told you about locking up after The Gnome checks out for the night? With all the noise, any one could walk in here, and you wouldn’t know it until it’s too late. I might not be here next time.”

 Tara didn’t like the reminder of the chilling experience. Some perv from the
FairyRing
forum she made the mistake of giving her cell number to decided to follow her here one night and attempt to further the relationship--against her will.

“Want a cookie?” She held up the goodie. “Macadamia Nut, from Subway.”

Dan waved away her peace offering as he headed for the transmitter room.

Tara cleaned the remains of her spilled sandwich from her notebook and began scanning the notes she had taken from the library volume on Irish History. She was writing her thesis for her master’s degree on the little known rebellion in Ireland that took place in 1798. Turning the page of her notebook to a blank sheet, she pulled Lecky’s
History of Ireland
out of her knapsack, preparing to delve into more research.

The United Irishmen were the cloak and dagger patriots of the era, with members appearing to comply with the harsh British tactics by day while waging guerrilla warfare against their conquerors at night.

Tara shivered. The air conditioning vent was directly above her in the ceiling, making her feel as if she were sitting in a meat locker. She shrugged on her denim jacket, and placed her hand in the pocket to warm it. Her iPod was still there. Her fingers hugged the smooth little miracle as she continued with her research. The United Irishman secretly trained militia among the peasants and amassed weapons for the planned overthrow of the British under the leadership of Theobald Wolfe-Tone and Lord Edward Fitzgerald. Wolfe-Tone garnered support from Napoleon, who promised to send a fleet of ships to aid the Irish patriots in freeing their land from British Rule. The arrangement wasn’t altruistic, as one might think. Napoleon hoped to achieve a back door invasion of England through Ireland and . . .  

“
Tara
!”  Dan yelled from the transmitter room.

At that same moment the lights went out.

She reached for the flashlight this time, knocking over her soda, spilling the contents on the library book and her cargo pants. She swore under her breath.

The lights flickered on then died out again. She hurried down the hall to the transformer room. “What is it?”

“With the power zapping on and off every five minutes, I’m connecting the transmitter to the generator for the rest of the night.  I need your help.”  Dan shouted over the clamoring din of wind, rain and thunder surrounding the building. He was lying on his side in front of the transmitter, a cigarette in his mouth and both hands inside the access door as he struggled to repair the latest glitch in the recurring system failure.